The king of the dead

A king of the dead is in his own prison
Of wood and fire and bright marigolds.
Someone from his DNA took an earring.

Smoke curled itself up about a temple.
A fire of an eating stove burnt the dead.
Their limbs scattered a mother’s death.

Someone down below in a  raging DNA
Had picked an earring bright and gold
From a shred of her corpse by the river.

The DNA will flow like the sacred river
But our moms earrings will be atoned
And King stays in a prison of his body.


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